


These Are Days (Cut the Floodlights remix)

by theleaveswant



Category: Whip It (2009)
Genre: Bruises, Coffee Shops, College, Cross-Generation Relationship, Crush, F/F, Minor Injuries, Remix, Sappy, Sports, Texas, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven days in the life of Bliss Cavendar: college freshman, TXRD player, stupid in love with her athletic arch-rival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are Days (Cut the Floodlights remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the floodlights on my face](https://archiveofourown.org/works/280941) by [aphrodite_mine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine). 



> Read the other story. Shouldn't matter which one you read first, but you want to read them both fairly close together. Trust me. I owe aphrodite_mine a lot more than gratitude for inviting me to remix her story and acknowledging her inspiration--this really is a companion piece, and some of the best lines are the ones borrowed outright.

Some Mondays, Bliss slinks into class fifteen minutes late and sits way at the back of the room. She wears long sleeves even if it's uncomfortably warm, leaves her sunglasses on and her hood pulled up even if she hasn't got a black eye or a fat lip to cover up this week, because that seems like the appropriate thing to do (drawing attention to how you're not trying to draw attention). She slouches in her chair and tries her best to catch up, to focus on the lecture, but it's never easy when every movement brings some twinge or ache, reminding her of pulled muscles and blossoming bruises and exactly what she did to earn them, all the lovely ways her body's been pushed and punished. She feels like Ed Norton around the middle of _Fight Club_ , nursing a dirty, delicious secret along with a limp and a wicked patch of floor-burn on the outside of her forearm, the one strip of skin her pads don't cover. Her classmates probably think she's hungover, that she's got some sort of problem (parties too hard, picks fights, gets slapped around by her no-good hypothetical boyfriend). Bliss has already figured out that those who choose to will go on believing what they want no matter what contrary evidence she attempts to provide, so she tries not to worry about it too much. After class lets out she'll hobble quietly to one of her preferred on-campus hiding spots and try to get as much studying done as she can, given the aforementioned distractions. Other Mondays, the ones not after a bout weekend, she's in her seat third row from the front before the professor even shows up, bright-eyed and bursting with questions. Somehow this roller coaster routine balances out enough that she's managing a B in this class, and a comfortable A- average across the rest of her course load. There are a handful of other TXRD girls at St. Edward's, including one faculty member, and Bliss never fails to greet them all with a small wave and a smile, even the ones she's never spoken to directly, but most never acknowledge her off the track, without skates on.

Tuesdays are league practices. Bliss sets a timer and does her level best to keep her mind on the books until it goes, but the last hour is usually a write-off anyway. On Tuesdays she pushes herself, knowing that other girls are watching. She's not the greenest rookie in the league anymore, nor even the youngest player although that margin's pretty narrow, and she can't expect anyone to cut her any slack for being the derby baby, the rising star poster girl-pet, now that she's got a whole season under her belt. Now there's no more blazing glory for her part in pulling the Hurl Scouts out of their habitual last-place league ranking, but she's still under fire to keep the team moving onward and upward. That's not easy, with players like Iron Maven clinging tight to the brass ring (Maven, who smirks at Bliss like she's pleased to finally have some serious competition, a reason to push harder, and like she wants Bliss to know she's not going down without a long and bloody fight). She pushes herself because that's what you do in order to earn the rewards you've already got; getting better is just an extra carrot—nice, desirable, but ultimately unnecessary. (Most everybody drinks after practice, but Bliss is still not legally allowed in bars—old enough to play, old enough to vote, old enough to have sex though don't mention that to her father, still not old enough to drink. She goes along anyway, sometimes, if the Scouts pick a place that doesn't card, but usually she pleads homework and catches a ride with Maggie back to her dorm on campus. It breaks her heart a little bit to miss out, and takes her hours to come down from the rattling high of racing, but at least she gets to shower once she gets home.)

On Wednesdays, Bliss takes things relatively easy. She sleeps in, if she feels like it, before heading over to the student union building where she volunteers. It's boring as hell, usually, but it's important to maintain her Blue Bonnet scholarship eligibility, and it's nice to have time to let her mind wander while she folds leaflets and licks envelopes. By five o'clock she's free and on her way to the Brewery (coffee house, cafe, and bar), in time to snag the corner table with good acoustics and a working electrical outlet, where there's just enough space to spread out her laptop and books and get a comfortable few hours of studying in. She makes herself a model customer: stays out of the way, doesn't make a fuss, sips her coffee slow, calculates her tip carefully and then rounds it up. Responsible. Independent. Mature. It's a nice feeling. (It startled the hell out of her the first time she walked in and saw _Iron Maven_ waiting tables in a black apron, enough that her throat went dry and she had to swallow down her ambushed feeling and remember how to think, how to act like a functioning person, how to ask for a bloody menu.) Two and a half cups in, Bliss lifts her hand, as non-urgently as possible, and smiles. “If you don't mind, Ruth, I'd like a refill.” It's gratifyingly intimate, the privilege of getting to know her outside of the Iron Maven track persona. Unlike most of her derby friends, Bliss had never even heard Maven's first name until she saw it on the nametag (and she can't pretend the coincidence never gave her pause, or kept her up half the night staring at the ceiling in mildly suspicious wonder). Now she holds it like one of the tea lights Ruth is igniting on tables around the cafe while the sky dims outside, cups it like a flame. Glinting.

Thursday—or as Bliss would like to call it, “the gauntlet”. Not only does she have two classes back-to-back on opposite sides of the campus and a lab in the spookiest, smelliest basement she's ever seen in real life, she also has to race straight from her spooky, smelly lab session to the bus loop or she'll miss the one transfer that'll get her to the warehouse in time for Hurl Scouts practice. Even Smashley's making an effort to show up on time now, and Bliss doesn't want to be the one to keep her coach and teammates waiting. It's hard enough to fit every drill that Razor wants to cover into their scheduled time as it is, particularly with the distraction of the Holy Rollers (who book the block immediately after the Scouts, every week) showing up early to chase them out. Practice itself is amazing, of course, in the way that nothing is outside the track and possibly good sex, and when she's there and moving everything else washes away, like her body is actually sweating out the stress of the day when they hit that groove, Bliss and her family, her Hurl Scouts, flow together like one organism, one well-oiled machine—until Iron Maven arrives, anyway, and Bliss's concentration goes out the window. (Bliss never goes with them to the bar on Thursdays. She's too overwhelmed and exhausted and besides, she has a class first thing in the morning.)

Friday. Saturday. Sunday. There are bout weekends, and off weekends. Bliss never gets much work done on the weekends, even if she's not worn out and sore from competing or the vicarious tension of watching the other teams. Sometimes she goes to visit Ruth (Maven? Bliss never knows what to call her outside of the Warehouse or the coffee shop, so she tries as much as possible to avoid calling her by any name at all), armed with some perfectly legitimate reason for stopping by that always dies on her tongue when Ruth actually opens the door instead of slamming it in Bliss's face. Ruth's arms cross, every time, and a shimmer of doubt clouds her face and tightens her eyes when she looks at Bliss, _what are you doing here, what am_ I _doing letting you in?_

“Look,” Bliss had said the first time, “I don't hate you. I don't hate any of you, but I don't hate you specifically. And not that it matters, but I'm eighteen now, and I don't care if that's still—” she counted in her head, “—okay, a lot younger than you—”

Maven had snorted. “Thanks.”

“—but I can’t stop thinking about you, okay? And I know you’ve got a lot to teach me, right? I’m a fast learner. Really fast.”

Ruth closed the door, the first time, after she told Bliss “this isn't what you want.” But it was, and it is, and when Bliss sucked a breath and knocked a second time she opened up again.

Bliss won't lie: that look of doubt stings, every time, because it makes her worry that Ruth doesn't want this the way she does, doesn't want Bliss. She worries that she's pushed too hard, that instead of impressing Ruth by paying attention in order to learn all that she can about her, she's creeped her out by watching her too closely. She worries that Ruth doesn't trust her, doesn't believe that she's old enough to make her own decisions. The sting fades, though, when Ruth smiles and grabs Bliss by the shirt, pulling her across the threshold. Showing up at Ruth's door leads to the kitchen, the living room floor, the comforter tossed from the bed, clothing ripped or gently discarded, and marks on skin that don't come from the track. 

She doesn't tell anyone, of course, not even Pash. She doesn't know what she'd say. Even so, by the end of every weekend Bliss is more tired and scuffed up than she started, whether she's laced up her skates or not, and when she snuggles down into her own bed on Sunday night she's struck by the same sweet, silly thought: that Babe is Ruthless no more.


End file.
